Retrograde Analysis
by My Misguided Fairytale
Summary: The thing about perfection is that it never lasts. There is not a reality where he would like to exist where she dies. / Steampunk AU, Taphoshipping Father Ishtar x Mother Ishtar, prequel to Retrograde Motion


Retrograde Analysis

Genres: Sci-Fi, Romance

Summary: The thing about perfection is that it never lasts. There is not a reality where he would like to exist where she dies. / Steampunk AU, Taphoshipping Father Ishtar x Mother Ishtar, prequel to Retrograde Motion&Inversion

A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Season 10, Round Seven, with the pairing of Taphoshipping (Father Ishtar x Mother Ishtar). This is a part of the _Retrograde_ 'verse and a _prequel _to the events in _Retrograde Motion _and _Retrograde Inversion_. While it is a prequel and can be read stand-alone, this is meant to be read after reading the previous stories in the 'verse. This is a steampunk AU, and the names I use for the Ishtars are _Nassor _and _Panya_.

Italicized scenes are flashbacks. I hope you enjoy the story!

* * *

_**Retrograde Analysis**_

_**"**__I think you are wrong to want a heart__**.**__ It makes most people unhappy__**.**__ If you only knew it__**,**__ you are in luck not to have a heart__**." **__–The Wizard, from L. Frank Baum's __**The Wonderful Wizard of Oz**_

* * *

_He loves working with machines because they have a purpose. It's written out so clearly in their programming, and they never stray beyond that which defines them. He sees it—the way the machines work together to build and power the city around them, working with a precision so perfect it makes him envious when he looks at the people who live amongst these machines. Bureaucracy is erratic and broken at best, and his colleagues and superiors lag like an un-oiled Derailleur sprocket. It is a good thing machines do not work like people do, and a poor thing that people cannot compare, and do not seem to wish to. _

"_Nassor." Teremun's voice is strong and steady, but as he hops around stacks of boxes and folders he makes no attempt to hide his disapproval. "How do you expect to keep all of this straight? You really should get a secretary, you know."_

"I _know where everything is. It is not my fault if you do not."_

"_So petulant!" Teremun grins at him over his desk, spread with papers and pencils. "Like a child! Do not give me that look, you know it's true." He studies one of the diagrams, upside-down, and reaches to turn it over, reading the notes in the margins. "You do not have to worry about anyone stealing your designs! Just look at the mess—to steal them they would need to find them first!"_

"_Teremun, are you here for any other reason than to mock me?" Nassor lets his friend take up the papers, holding them in wrinkled fingers. "I thought the meetings were not until tomorrow?"_

"_That is true," Teremun says, "but I wanted your assistance. Several of the other chairmen have banded together—led by Zahur, no doubt. They seek a majority vote, to gain control of the production process. Their ideas are…" He grimaces, shaking his head. "They are brilliant, no doubt of it—"_

"_As are we all," Nassor interrupts. "But brilliance forgets itself. Their responsibility is towards the growth of the city, not the growth of their pockets or the esteem of their names. They would shut us out, am I correct? Delegate us to subterranean offices, our own projects forgotten where they would usurp theirs. Such a thing is unspeakable."_

"_Yet here we are, speaking about it." Teremun makes quick notations on the diagram, pausing to do the necessary calculations in his head. "I helped you rise to your seat in this council. I see more promise in you every day. Together, we can deter their plans."_

"_But not for long. I will consider your advice," he says. "And I will see you tomorrow."_

"_Do not work too late!" He already knows his counsel here is futile; most days Nassor sleeps in his offices, although he prefers the small apartment he keeps to the aging, crumbling building that had been his family's for generations. It is only his lack of dedicated staff that keeps him from restoring and repurposing the entire building just for his own purposes, instead of making the trip from his office in the inner city to his residence on the outskirts. As one of the ten chairmen, he has access to resources and space unparalleled by all except for the others who shared his position creating plans for the continued growth of the city. In this case, it would not be difficult to fill the _

_Of them all, he knows Teremun is the only one he could even remotely trust with his schematic diagrams. Anyone he hires would need to be just as trustworthy, which is unfeasible when the odds are high that they are already in Zahur's back pocket. His mentor meant well, and his genius was unquestionable—he had designed the plans for a citywide rail system—but it had been Nassor's designs which powered them. And it is Nassor's plans now that herald a new system to power the rest of the city, linking the many buildings on one grid. Where before everything was powered individually, he would create a network out of them. It is near-perfect; its only flaw is that it had yet to be approved._

_He leaves the office several hours later, figuring Teremun would be proud of him for not accidentally working through to the morning again. His office is located high enough up on a tall building to catch the sunlight, but he keeps the windows covered, preferring not to look outside at the city around him. As he walks down the sidewalks he steps through puddles and over scraps of newspaper tossed by the wind it becomes impossible not to look at it—the buildings themselves are uniform in design, constructed of concrete with thin, darkened windows. Most seem to hang above the streets instead of opening up onto them—the streets themselves are not overly populated, but he begins to see more people the further he moves from the city center._

_He supposes it had never occurred to the original designers to plan for luxury, for it is not to be found here. Skinny dogs and skinnier children loiter in the alleyways, playing with whatever they can find. The streetlamps are almost too dim to see by at nighttime, but with the sun still hovering on the horizon he can make his way without too much trouble. _

_He turns the corner and catches sight of his building, outlined in red from where it blocks the sunlight. It's bordered by a low fence, and a few men and women sit on it, legs dangling. At the far end of the group a young woman in a too-large jacket ties a bandage around another child's arm. It's not the visual that causes him to stop—it's her voice, low and smooth, detailing to the child all of the things he must do to avoid infection and let the wound heal. The remaining bandages go into one pocket and a piece of plastic-wrapped candy is removed from another, handed over with a smile._

_Teremun would hate the idea, and that's exactly why he considers it, stopping and running a hand over his chin. "Hey, you! Girl!" he calls out, stepping closer._

_She gently pushes the child to the side before turning to face him. "Yes?"_

"_Do you know what Ishtar Engineering is?"_

"_No?"_

"_You will. Would you like a job?" It is clear enough from her ill-fitting attire and the smudges of dirt on her face that she doesn't have one. "Are you an orphan?"_

"_That depends on the job, but yes on all counts," she says. He is gratified when she begins to study him the same way he did her—no doubt parsing out everything from the rolled cuffs of his dress shirt to the cleanliness of his shoes. _

"_I require a secretary—someone to keep my contacts and records in order. Someone to keep my secrets. Can you do that for me? If you can, name your price and I'll pay it."_

"_I-I can." Where his voice is absolute in its seriousness, hers shakes. _

"_I'm glad to hear that."_

_Her voice gets stronger. "But what would I buy with your money? It's more important to me to have a place to say."_

_He thinks of the tall, concrete building with half its rooms vacant, the other half filled with files and near-endless rows of machine parts. He has let it all but crumble into disarray, but it would not take much to make it livable again. She can have an entire floor if she wants, if that is what it would cost to have someone to depend on—someone whose allegiance would be absolute._

"_I can give that to you as well. Meet me here at sunrise. What is your name?"_

"_It's Panya," she says._

* * *

Nassor rests his chin on one hand, absently re-reading a memorandum. The words blur on the page, but his thoughts are elsewhere, and the memo cannot hold his interest when there are so many more pressing matters.

There is a knock at the door. He has given strict orders not to be disturbed, and the knock is not so light to be one of Panya's. Instead, the knock is more of a formality, as the door opens simultaneously and Zahur walks inside, casting a dismissive glance at the décor.

From that, Nassor knows he is impressed by it—it was Panya's design, expanded from the old room he'd been unwilling to leave—with a large desk as the centerpiece, made of dark wood with carved legs, surrounded by standing lamps and a few ornaments, decorative touches that he barely pays attention to. His desk faces the door, his back to the window, framed by a dark velvet curtain.

"Have you heard the news?" Zahur's voice is deeper from stress and lack of sleep; Nassor knows the other man well enough to know the difference. "Of course you haven't. Let me be the one to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Nassor is glad Panya is resting. Zahur is abrasive enough, but he would rather his wife not face the man with his current attitude.

"Ubaid was found dead this morning in his home. That makes two, you know."

"Natural causes?" Zahur's silence is enough of an answer. "One is an accident. Two, not so much," Nassor says. "Have you come to warn me? Do you believe I am in danger?"

"I would not waste my time." Zahur folds his arms behind his back, stepping further into the office. His back is too straight, and Nassor considers standing to stop Zahur from being able to look down on him.

"Then what is it?" More than anything, Nassor wants to see Panya. His thoughts cannot concentrate on anything else for long.

"We must meet to decide what course of action to take. The location is being kept a secret…you will have to accompany me there."

Nassor sighs and stands. Panya will have to wait for him. "Lead the way, then."

The others sit at a circular table; Nassor hates that he is the last to arrive, but takes his seat between Zahur and Teremun with composure, preferring to sit back and watch before making his move. Two seats at their table of ten are empty. The rest of the chairmen do not seem eager to fill them, and Nassor shares that view—with eight remaining, they are once again at an even number. Any ties in their decision-making cannot be broken by a single, dissenting voice.

They debate for what feels like hours, until Nassor shifts in his uncomfortable chair and all eyes turn towards him. "You have been awfully quiet, friend," Teremun says. "What are your thoughts?"

"I think we have an enemy, yes." He is careful to speak slowly, as if he has not had time to formulate his ideas into something more cohesive and ingenious. "All evidence points towards this fact."

Once more the din of voices starts up, and Teremun's is too reedy to be heard by any other than Nassor.

"There is a leak in our system," Zahur is keen to assert. "Either we have an enemy on the outside, or the enemy is one of our number."

The same words had left Teremun's mouth only moments before, but now Zahur commands their attention. "We need to take action and investigate our members more thoroughly. We can start by making our records available—"

"You cannot tell us what to do." Across the table, Kontar stands. "You are not our leader—we are all equals here. This table has no head."

"Perhaps there should be!" Zahur stands to match him. "What could someone stand to gain from cutting down our number?"

"_What could someone stand to gain from this_," Teremun repeats his words in a whisper to Nassor. "His words betray him, and now we will have this old debate again."

"I would lead us with fairness and prudence—"

"You would lead us with lies." The others have grown quiet enough for Teremun's voice to be heard. The softness of it carries more weight than any of Zahur's bombastic posturing. "What is best now is caution. Consider yourselves and your staffs. Consider each other. Look for things that don't match up—we should be very good at this. If there is a culprit they will expose themselves. What is important is to keep moving forward."

Several of the others began to whisper amongst themselves. "Zahur, you would call for a vote to elect a leader among us, when the one I feel most confident in this old man!" Kontar says. "He is one of the few of us talking sense."

"And the others?"

"Your young protégée," he tells Teremun. "I have always trusted your words, the both of you."

Afterwards, Nassor walks the familiar path to the old concrete building in the center of town, now the house of a large generator in its lowest levels. His family is housed on the highest floors, above the winding staircases and lockers full of tools and equipment. Below, even now, robots work on the menial tasks, eliminating the need for human involvement beyond the most sensitive tasks. It is a perfect efficiency, and they have his trust where it is so seldom given. Still, there is always room for more, and he makes a mental note to talk to Ubaid's chief-of-staff about some new employment opportunities.

He can hear the clatter in the kitchen before he opens the door. Panya is packing up some pots and pans; he takes them from her and puts them back in the sink. "We have staff for this. You should not have to lift a finger if you do not want to."

Panya dries her wet hands on the hem of her shirt. "And I want to." She holds out a bowl for him, two more resting in the sink, clean. "I told our daughter you would join us for dinner."

"Then do not tell her such things. I said I would try, and I did. There were…unforeseen complications." Nassor accepted the bowl she offered and raised a forkful of vegetables to his mouth. They were cold, and the taste was almost slimy. "I apologize."

"You do not have to make it up to me, but to her. Let her help you—your creations enchant her." Panya's eyes shine for a moment, and he knows his Ishizu is not the only one.

"I will find a place for her," he promises. Panya smiles, and it is as if all of his many concerns are gone, replaced by her, glorious and beautiful before him, even with disheveled hair and a shirtfront spotted with dishwater. For a moment, his thoughts are at rest.

* * *

_The number of words he has spoken to her is too high for her to count or remember, but so few that days would pass where she doesn't even hear one. Panya 's tasks puts her in close contact with her new employer, and she likes to watch him work—it fascinates her to find a person so focused to the point of blocking out all else. He is like the machines he builds, single-minded and driven, but so complex that each layer she unwraps reveals something new and unexpected. She finds him well-suited to his profession, and attempts to do whatever she can to assist him, even if it is just to do something as simple as summarize reports or choose the colors for the walls of the apartments he's building for the two of them in the stark concrete building she now calls home. _

_Nassor reaches across the table to connect a few wires, working quickly, muttering beneath his breath. A few robots scurry around him, basic metallic constructs with little design beyond the essential. If she had designed them, she would have given them features—contours to the arms, color to the head and body. She wonders if the thought has ever crossed his mind, and doubts it. _

_There are a few other engineers in the room, working on various parts of the huge coils that stretch around the room or on the large fans being installed to keep the room cool, but she notices that all of them seem to be staying as far away from Nassor as possible, keeping their distance in a way that seems more from fear than respect. _

_As he works with the wires, she watches his hands, how careful and precise they are. Frowning, she looks closer, moving to his side without hesitation when she sees how the hot wires have burned his fingertips. He hardly seems to notice the blood, running down the edges of his fingers, but when she tries to snatch up his hands he bats hers away._

"_Do not interrupt me when I'm working," he says._

_Her grip is stronger than he anticipates, and after the second try she succeeds in latching onto his hand. "How can I look out for you if you neglect your health?"_

_She calls over one of the engineers, barking out orders. "Get me some bandages, please. And an antiseptic, if you have it. Quickly!"_

_From her tone and the way she stares them down, the man leaves at her command. She turns her attention back to Nassor's hands, her frown growing deeper when she sees more evidence of scarring on his fingertips. She _tsks_ in disapproval._

"_What else are you hiding from me, Nassor?" His hands are much warmer than hers, but the longer she holds them she feels her own skin pick up some of that warmth. "You cannot function as perfectly as you'd like to if your hands suffer like this. You'll lose your feeling in them if you aren't careful."_

_The engineer returns with some thin bandages wrapped in plastic, gauze, and a bottle of antiseptic. She cleans the wounds methodically, chuckling whenever he winces._

_From across the room, the others stare at her casual treatment of him, but Panya hardly notices, her focus directly entirely on tying the last bandage around Nassor's fingers. _

"_If the bandages get in your way, just tell myself or someone else what to do and we'll do it for you," she tells him. "Or you can just supervise one of your robots. At least this way you'll heal."_

_He grunts in reply, and she drops his hands at last, saying, "What would you do without me, hmm?"_

"_I have no idea." And he does not. For all that he knows about the way gears and circuits combine to create something wondrous, he knows that having Panya near him is doing more to help his ambition than ever before. He feels like he can do anything—that achieving leadership of the chairmen is in reach, that creating the impossible is an imminent reality. _

"_Thank you for your concern." There is no sarcasm in his voice, and the seriousness of his gratitude—not for taking him away from his work, but for noticing and treating the deliberate injury where anyone else would have ignored it—takes her by surprise, and she feels like she has just unwrapped another layer of the infinite complexity that is Nassor Ishtar. _

_He continues, "Do you have any other advice for my health?"_

"_You haven't been eating right. Dinner is in order, then. I'll cook something for you."_

"_Tonight?" he asks; she does not have to imagine the slight grin that twists his mouth upwards. It is not a bad look on him._

"_Tonight," she says, "and any night thereafter you wish."_

* * *

"Tell me what you are building, my boy." It is an endearment he has never been able to get Teremun to stop calling him, but he finds it acceptable considering Teremun has no sons and he has no father. "And tell me about your family. How are they?"

He answers the last question first. "Ishizu is fine." As quiet as ever, but if she has her books and her numbers she is happy. "Panya is…not well."

He could say more, but the words stick in his throat. "For the first time I wish I had studied medical science instead of engineering."

"I will send over my personal doctor, then. God only knows how he's managed to keep me alive this long." The joke is accompanied by a wheezing laugh.

"I appreciate it." He moves on to the schematics before him, an upgraded version of the robots he typically uses, but built more for precision than for manual labor.

Teremun's pace is slower as he moves around the desk to spread out the blueprints; several times his calculations are incorrect, and Nassor has to gently rectify the mistakes by smudging out the pencil marks and adding the correct figures.

"Did Ubaid's men assist you with this?" Teremun remembers the other man's predilection for robotics over any other kind of industry—his designs were always the most advanced, although among the chairmen he was not known for his compassion or sociability.

"Yes, I've hired them. I saw an opportunity, and I took it." Nassor continues to sketch on the paper, idly imagining the robot it would become. "Zahur keeps trying to claim the dead man's vote."

The pencil in Teremun's hand clatters to the table. "And he would have had it, had he still been alive. I do not understand why we cannot seem to talk of anything else."

"Zahur, he—you _know _him, Teremun!" And he picks up the discarded pencil, bringing the stubbed end down to _thud_ against the table. "I would be discarded, my work stopped, my projects closed. My family would suffer. I cannot let that happen."

"Then, in any future vote, support me as you have always had." Teremun's answer is simple, delivered in a voice thinned by age. "I'd like to see my projects put into action. I think the last one was a success."

"Your railway connecting the city to the surrounding hamlets hardly sees any traffic at all."

"Ah, but it stops our garbage from accumulating in the streets!" Teremun's laugh is once again broken by a cough. "A tidy solution to an untidy problem, if not the one we first intended. There are plenty of hillside junkyards that would gladly receive our trash."

Nassor pinches his nose, exhaling loudly as Teremun continues to chatter away.

The chairmen wouldn't surely be so foolish to elect an old man for their leader, but the others do not know him as Nassor does. They do not see the direction that path would lead. The city would not prosper and worse, once he had died the same problem would present itself and he would be in an even worse position to defend himself from it.

"—And with the lessened burden on incinerators, the air quality will improve—"

He hopes for a path where he is one day elected. That would surely guarantee his family's future in a world where one's prospects can change on a dime. The windows in his office remain covered; he has no wish to see the streets outside, and the condition of the people who roam them, purposeless, extra cogs in a machine that has no need of them.

"Some say we throw away too much, but I don't think we're throwing away quite _enough_—"

Nassor lets him prattle away, lost just as thoroughly within his own mind, envisioning the unfurling of his plan.

"The thing about perfection is that it never lasts," he mutters against one closed hand, folded under his chin. "I have Panya, and Ishizu, and…" There is no name, not yet, so he cannot speak it. "This can never last unless I find a way to make it."

It takes him a moment to realize that Teremun has stopped speaking.

"My boy," he says, finally, "have you not realized yet that nothing is perfect?"

The quickness of his grin surprises even himself. "Then that will give me something to aspire to. I will have it—it is not so far off. I won't let barriers like that stand in my way."

* * *

_His hand closes over hers as they talk. She thinks he almost does not realize it, but however autonomous it is the gesture warms her. Panya remembers how at first he shied away from her closeness—the memory of him flinching back when she grabbed his hand to bandage his fingers strongest in her mind—but now he seems to invite it._

"_They're so jealous, Panya! You should have seen their faces."_

_She makes a face of her own at that. He sounds so pleased, so childish in how he seeks her approval for something so self-indulgent as his own pride._

"_The rest of the chairmen have approved my newest project…they'll give me all the money and resources I need! Zahur's should have been denied…it was so flawed!"_

_She has barely begun to scratch the surface of his mind, and typically when he goes off on a tirade she lets him, but she does not want to hear any more of this. "Tell me about your generator."_

"_By putting the entire city on one grid instead of using individual generators for power, we can directly control the output and increase efficiency," he says. "If there was a short circuit, it would be a simple fix, rather than tracking down these smaller, older generators."_

_She does not understand the mechanics behind much of what he says, so she tries to grasp the man behind them instead. "What is your goal in accomplishing all this?"_

"_I would be honest in admitting to you that it is not all for the people of this city." His deep voice is oddly quiet. "It is more for myself than for them. I do not like to think of them—I do not like to think of myself like them."_

_She cannot wriggle her hand out from under his. "Then what do you think of me?"_

_He looks up. "I think the world of you. I would lead you to the place where I am if I could. I would lead everyone to that place if such a thing were possible. That is my goal."_

"_I am starting to think that nothing is beyond your grasp," she says. "The thought is more terrifying than exciting."_

"_It's also the truth," Nassor tells her. "I'll show you. Then you will see. There's nothing to be afraid of."_

* * *

When Ishizu asks him for a brother, he has to tell her _soon_, shaking his head at the impatience that they both share. He proposes a robot sibling, for the time being, and she wrinkles her nose; the coldness of the metal is too off-putting, she says, and asks if he could find a way to make it not so cold.

With the central generator located several stories beneath their feet, he does not even have to go outside to reach it, finding the switchboard and dismissing the robots managing it.

His finger hesitates over the first button. The task is so simple, overloading the circuits in one sector to start a fire. Zahur works with coal and oils—producing archaic versions of Nassor's own generators—and he knows there will be plenty to ignite.

"_A meeting,_" he had told Teremun only days before, "_with Zahur, at noon. He wants us to see something of his, some plans for a collaboration._"

The second hand sweeps across the clock on the wall before him, and he presses the button to divert the power.

When an explosion rocks the city, he brushes aside the curtain covering the tiny window to watch the distant building as a corner of it is engulfed in flames. Smoke pours from the windows, the product of his work.

He expects his thoughts to finally be at peace, and is unsettled to find that they are.

* * *

"_What would you have of me?" she asks._

"_I would have you marry me," he says._

* * *

The others sit around the table; the empty chairs have been removed, forming wide gaps between the six remaining. The din from competing voices is worse than ever, although Nassor is quiet. With no one to turn to for answers, all they can do is debate and shout, calling for more safety regulations or the disuse of coal altogether. There is no leader to direct them, and now they find themselves in need of one.

Kontar stands, and the rest fall silent. "You have been quiet," he says to Nassor. "I have always trusted your words. If elected, what would _you_ do?"

His mouth feels dry as sandpaper, his tongue heavy as he speaks. "I would do nothing. I would not want to abuse your trust."

His first thought is for Panya, and he rushes home to tell her, finding her in his office.

"You're early for dinner," she says with a laugh, sobering when she catches the look on his face. "Is something wrong?"

"No." He moves towards her, catching her in an embrace and burying his face into her hair. "They have chosen me. We're _set_, Panya, our future is secure—"

"But I thought—"

"I am still grieving. It is a shame that Teremun had to die for it to happen."

She stiffens in his arms, her fingers tightening in their grip on his shoulders, and in a shocking instant it's clear to him, _she knows_, he can feel it in the way her breathing changes.

"I love you," he says, making an offering of the words, and lets her pull back enough to study his face with her eyes and her fingertips, running down from his cheeks to smooth across his neck and shoulders. Her hands are shaking, and are as cold as they've ever been.

"I do not want to face such eyes," she says. "Do you not even see yourself? I do not recognize—"

"_Don't-!_" He would ask her not to finish that statement when he cannot even finish his own.

"What is the value in this?" she asks. "I know I am not special, I came from nothing, but still I know that certain things have value and certain things do not."

He wants to fall to his knees before her and beg her to teach him. He would make another offering of his words, or create something for her that could more clearly express the depth of his feelings so that maybe she would understand them.

"Name it," he says, reaching for her hands. "Ask something of me and I will do it for you. Anything. Just tell me."

She pauses, thinking, every second agony for him as he waits for her answer. "I would name our son," she says at last.

"You have it." His hands tighten around hers. It is not forgiveness, or anything close to it, but if she had asked for the moon he would have found a way to bring it crashing down to Earth for her. This is not so much as that, but in many ways it is so much more.

* * *

"_I would like to show you something," he tells her one day, taking her arm and leading her down the large, enclosed stairwell. Their footsteps echo on every rung, and he approaches a thick door at the base of the stairs, entering a code in a keypad. The door unlocks, and he holds it open for her, turning on a light and standing awkwardly while she looks around._

"_I thought you should see it," he says, continuing when he feels the need to explain further. "It's like a crypt…my family has owned this building for generations, and all of them are buried here."_

"_Show me." At her request, he points out his father's crypt, carved in white marble, and his mother's, on the opposite wall. _

"_Where is yours?" she asks._

"_I have not built it yet and I have no plans to do it soon."_

_A slight smile tugs at her lips. There is enough space for many more generations, the tombs spread out in angled rows. She turns back towards Nassor. _

"_Will I have one as well? Next to yours?"_

_His answer is stilted, hesitant, close to silent. "Yes."_

"_Will there be space made for our children?"_

"_Children?"_

"_Yes," she says, "we are having a child."_

* * *

The doctor calls him in to tell him the news.

"She cannot be dead." This is not a reality where he would like to exist. "Didn't she know that I did this all for her?"

"It is an ugly trade," he says. "But you have a son."

The thought sickens him. He wishes he could take it back, replace one life with another the way Panya's was so cruelly ripped from him.

"It is your son's birthday. You should celebrate that at least. I hope he has many more." The doctor leaves them alone—the baby wrapped up in a crib, the father staring at him with a despair he didn't think possible.

"Marik. We are both killers," he says, reaching for his son, cradling the squalling infant in his arms. "I will never celebrate today."

**End.**

* * *

Notes:

1) All of the names used are Egyptian; _Nassor_ and _Panya_ mean 'victor' and 'mouse,' respectively; _Kontar _means 'only son,' _Ubaid _means 'faithful,' _Zahur _means 'flower,' and _Teremun_ means 'loved by his father.' I picked the names because they sound pretty, but I like the connotations, too.

2) _Retrograde Analysis _refers to, in chess, "a computational method used to solve game positions for optimal play by working backward from known outcomes," like checkmate (Wikipedia). Since this is a prequel, working backwards from what we know from the earlier stories, I thought it fit. This story references the others in the 'verse a good bit, so if you have not read them, I would suggest doing so, if you're so inclined.

3) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews.

~Jess


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